She Follows the Dead
by HM Frost
Summary: The many faces of Carol Peletier.


She is light, swaddled in a pink blanket as she breathes life into her lungs. She feels a gentle kiss on her forehead, hears adoration in the sound of her father's relief. "She's a beautiful child," the doctor says with a smile that pales in comparison to that of the woman who pulls the child into her exhausted grip. The cries die in the warmth of her mother's arms, and the baby falls into a blissful sleep. Carol, they name her. A delicate melody.

She is possibility, with dreams of tomorrow and smudge of dirt on her nose as her mother calls her inside for lunch. The little girl's pigtails bounce with every step, her yellow dress dancing to the music of the summer breeze. The sound of laughter paints the grass beneath her bare feet, and her father plants her on his shoulders. Sunlight caresses her skin, telling stories of freedom on the wings of a blue bird that is perched on the branch of a tree.

She is afraid, forced to discover the world without a hand to hold. Wisdom invades her fears as she steps into a new life, watching as her parents drive away to a place that she had once called home. _It will be okay_ , she thinks, fighting the tears in her eyes that shield her view of the past. _They trust you now._ She turns to opens the door to her future. _It will be okay_. She starts to believe it.

She is love, a fire in her heart as he showers her with praises and promises. Purple hearts with scrawled in initials fill the margins of her notebook. C + E. E + C. She imagines her life with him, an eternity of laughter and security. Barbecues at her parents' and family picnics by the lake; Christmases with excited children huddled around the tree. The diamond ring on her finger threatens to slide off, but she doesn't notice.

She is a wife, bruises staining her skin and choking on the salt of her tears. The alcohol is heavy on his breath, his eyes burn as he slams her against the wall of their kitchen. Her breath shallows as the hand around her throat becomes poison. _Stop,_ she wants to scream. _I can't breathe._ A wedding photo drops onto the floor, shattering as it crashes into the tile. For a second, she considers using the shards of the glass against him, but the ring on her finger is heavier than the world. Her last thought before she faints is of regret.

She is a mother, the light of the sun before her as she presses her lips to Sophia's cheeks. "You are the most important thing in the world to me," she tells her, and her daughter doesn't question her. They sit on the front porch with peanut butter sandwiches that taste like heaven. The swing groans under their weight as they watch the setting sun on the horizon.

She is a widow, driving the axe into her dead husband with the memories of broken promises. His blood spills onto her shoes, and she finds herself thinking that it isn't enough. One more swing, and she is free.

She is a victim, standing at her child's grave with a new doll in her hand. They had buried her beneath a willow that had lost most of its leaves to the coming winter. _This is beautiful enough for her_ , she thinks. In the distance, she can see Lori's concerned gaze as she embraces her stomach. Her son pulls her aside, and Lori is gone. She wants to cry, but there is only the sound of the wind as she lays the doll gently onto the dirt.

She is reborn, repurposed. They mold her into a vision of perseverance and individuality that is foreign to her, but no less welcomed. No longer is she seen as an impending fatality, or as another obstacle in the hostility of this new world. The gun in her hands feels like it belongs there, lighter than air.

She is a protector, the smell of burning bodies permeating the Georgian air. _I have to try,_ she thinks as flesh melts away in the heat of the flames. The sisters follow her down the tracks with curious words that remind her of ones she had heard long ago. _I have to try,_ she thinks as a white house appears on the horizon. The leaves of the willow tree caress the dirt of the sisters' graves, protecting them more than she ever could.

She is alone, revered as a savior. Nobody recognizes her weary eyes and pretended smiles. She doesn't want them to see.

Her name was Carol. Now, she is no one.

* * *

 **a/n: i decided to write this during my astronomy class lecture about the kepler telescope. boy this was quite a change from that. anyway, i do believe carol is the most beautifully written character on the show, and i wanted to sort of honor her with this character study. i hope i managed to do her justice.**


End file.
